


A Mask of My Own Face

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Mockingbird (Comic)
Genre: BAMF Bobbi Morse, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bobbi Morse's ill-timed bi-piphany, F/F, F/M, Identity Porn, Multi, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover Missions, Undercover as Strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: It's been easy for seasoned special operatives and newly-weds Mockingbird and Hawkeye to keep job and private life separate. Until Bobbi goes undercover with the Russian mob.Little does she know that her unexpected and unprecedented attraction to the redheaded woman she's up against won't be the last surprise of the night.
Relationships: Bobbi Morse/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse, Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	A Mask of My Own Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> Written as an alternative entry for Holly Poly 2020 in which I was assigned to write for CloudAtlas. I ended up submitting a different fic, but this idea was already half-written, so have it as a little bonus treat.

_A_ _mask of my own face_ _\- I'd wear that._ _  
I'd wear it to a hoedown, and I'd dance with all the belles  
And none of them would know that I was secretly myself  
(Lemon Demon - A Mask of My Own Face)_

Working undercover jobs is a double-edged sword. On one hand it's required to do questionable things to blend in with a decidedly shady crowd, on the other, there's keeping your own integrity and moral compass intact. It's really a no-win situation, and as far as Bobbi knows, she's the last agent of her division who still has a functioning marriage.

So what if Clint and her have only been married seven months so far, point is: it's going well.

One of the main pillars of their relationship is _don't ask, don't tell_ which, admittedly, has a justified bad reputation in other circumstances, but for a couple who's working separate highly classified undercover jobs, it's a vital requirement. None of the relationship advice books that Jen, Bobbi's maid of honor (and incidentally, practising divorce lawyer), devours by the dozen, disagrees. Or takes it into consideration, for that matter. Regardless, it works for the Barton/Morse household, there is no guilt in things done in the line of duty, and at least as far as Bobbi is concerned, there fortunately hasn't yet been a mission that would qualify such close scrutiny of the rules anyway.

These are the things that Bobbi's mind stray to as she considers her unfamiliar reflection in the speckled mirror of some bar's tiny bathroom. While the candy pink of her dress is nothing she'd want to be seen dead in under different circumstances, in combination with the darker shade of blond that came with this false identity, it actually helps sell the transformation into somebody else entirely.

As she fusses with her make up, she unobtrusively scans her company via the mirror, taking her time fluffing and arranging her hair as she takes her in. Natalie, a petite redhead, doesn't seem to take notice, absorbed in redrawing the heavy black of her eyeliner with a steady hand despite the ceaseless motion of open-mouthed gum chewing.

"You good, Betty?" she addresses Bobbi, tugging down the wide neckline of her pistachio-coloured mini dress to unselfconsciously reach in and hike up her strapless bra.

"Sure," Bobbi mutters through pursed lips, applying some more tacky gloss. "Nice of Ivan to sponsor us a girls' night out."

"He's nice like that," Natalie shrugs, delicately depositing her gum into a paper towel and dropping it into the overflowing bin mounted to the wall. Leaning back against the sink, she reaches up and wraps a lock of Bobbi's hair around her finger, watching her own hand rather than meeting Bobbi's eye. It isn't exactly crossing any personal boundaries, but still strangely intimate for two women who have only been waitressing at an illegal bar together for the past two weeks.

"He did say to have fun, yeah," Natalie confirms, glancing back to check out their reflection next to each other in the mirror, almost caught up to Bobbi's height with the staggering elevation of strappy stillettos on her feet. Without false modesty, they do make a striking pair, so it takes a second for Bobbi to question whether Natalie's hands running over the creases in her outfit border on something else than fashion advice. Before she has time to think on it, Natalie continues "Ivan's been real good to us, don't you think? Buying us all these pretty things, taking us to all these fancy clubs and restaurants?"

Bobbi nods her agreement, smoothing her dress herself and removing the other woman's hands in the process as if unintentionally. It's been weeks that she's spent trying to learn more about the ongoings in the inner circle of Ivan Banionis, leader of the group inofficially dubbed the _Tracksuit Mafia_. The invitation to go out on the town with his rumoured favourite, fellow floor girl Natalie Rabdanova, could prove to be the chance she's been waiting for. This is not the moment to let herself get distracted by flirtation where there probably isn't any intention behind it.

Natalie's green eyes sparkle up at her from beneath a heavy layer of false lashes and despite her best intentions, something unfamiliar turns over in Bobbi's gut. The sensation has her gaze drop to the inexplicably inviting curve of the other woman's blood-red smile.

"That's a lovely shade of lipstick," Bobbi hears herself say as if from far away, trying to divert them both from the confusing path her subconscious was about to go down.

"Thanks," Natalie replies softly, taking Bobbi's hand and giving it a brief, warm squeeze, "Ivan bought it for me. Isn't he the best?"

"He really is," Bobbi quickly agrees, mentally adding ' _if you're into extortion_ _,_ _money laundering_ _and fraud_ ' to get her mind back on track.

"Actually," Natalie drawls, and Bobbi notices she's not released her hand yet, "since he's being so good to us, we really should be thinking about doing something nice for him some time, don't you agree?" It's unfortunate for Natalie if she misconstrues Bobbi's joy at the prospect of finally learning something valuable as enthusiasm for her idea, but such is the game of deception.

She links their fingers to return to the bar's main room and Bobbi follows -but not before covertly securing the paper-wrapped piece of gum for later analysis.

Once they are settled comfortably in one of the booths together and fresh drinks have arrived, Natalie reveals what grand gesture she has in mind. To Bobbi's abundant lack of surprise, what she eventually suggests as adequate compensation for a few fancy dates and trinkets essentially boils down to prostitution. Which, naturally, isn't what she actually says. Throughout, she's quite clever at never _saying_ anything incriminating at all, betraying a sharp wit that involuntarily earns her some of Bobbi's professional respect.

The reason Bobbi doesn't balk right away, is that the plan for their supposed _fun girls' night out_ _,_ so obviously facilitated by the top Tracksuit himself, includes meeting a man who, for some reason is a thorn in the gangster's side; an unknown player Bobbi's own intel hasn't mentioned yet. So at least for a little while, she will play along to learn more about this potentially useful enemy of her enemy.

Bobbi lives for the challenge, so the fact that it's not at all easy to ply Natalie for information is a welcome discovery. Her rhetoric is as evasive and quick as a politician's, but she's sharp and funny about her changes of subject, which leaves Bobbi increasingly impressed and often outright laughing even as she fails to gain much useful information. This is the hardest aspect of undercover work, getting to meet people that are unexpectedly likeable, witty and charming. So much so, that it's easy to forget for a while that Bobbi's just there to make them slip up so she can end their life as they know it.

Perversely, Natalie enjoys her company just as much, Bobbi can tell.

There's an intriguing system to the way she asks about Betty's backstory, how she comes back to certain aspects in a roundabout way that Bobbi recognizes as an advanced interrogation technique. And yet, Natalie wraps it all up in a charming package of wit and flirtation that Bobbi finds herself genuinely captivated, all the more intrigued for being kept on her toes. If she's being honest with herself, they are connecting on a level that feels a lot like the real her underneath the veneer of 'Betty' - whether she wants to or not. They make up backstories about the people around them for fun and more often than not, Bobbi has to stop herself from showing just how well she can read the small details about any given person, hoping to distract Natalie from just how closely she's usually paying attention. Pacing their drinks sensibly, it's undeniable that the two of them are having a genuinely good time, and if Bobbi's pulse is hitching inexplicably in the instances when Natalie leans in too close to make a joke for her ears only, there's surely a rational explanation.

Just at that moment, she's smiling at Bobbi over the rim of her Vodka Gimlet and holds her eyes for an intense heartbeat, until Bobbi is sure her flushed cheeks give too much away.

Deep inside, she feels a sudden and unsettling need to call home, to have Clint rumble reassuringly about nothing in particular, to just hear his voice. It's not even the longest time they've been apart, but Bobbi wants to talk to him about the unfamiliar way this short Russian of questionable reputation makes her feel. After all, despite the occasional offer, Bobbi has always considered herself an ally, but undeniably straight. Why didn't she have her sexual crisis in college, like sensible people? Why here, now, sitting under a borrowed name, in borrowed clothes, at a dive bar with criminals?

While Bobbi is contemplating her life choices, Natalie has been looking around the room and, eyes arresting on somebody behind Bobbi's back, she leans over, offering a generous view of her décolleté.

"He's here," she whispers, and that husky rasp of her voice isn't helping Bobbi focus at all. "Now remember: all we're gonna do is make sure everybody has a good time and let that guy know that being Ivan's friend is much more enjoyable than being his enemy, okay?"

"Sure, easy," Bobbi agrees, grateful to be back to concentrating on the mission.

Natalie smiles encouragingly, the scent of her hair enticing and intoxicating as she rises to round the table and winds a sisterly arm around Bobbi's waist.

"Hi there," she addresses the newcomer, her voice a low, inviting register, "it's my friend's birthday, would you like to join us for a drink to her health?"

Pasting a winning smile on her face, Bobbi turns at the beginning of the man's protest, only for the expression to freeze as she takes him in.

"Hi," Clint says, surprise written all over his face, "happy birthday...?"

"Betty," Bobbi replies, only partially pretending her sudden breathlessness. Her hand offers itself for him to shake as if in slow-motion, but as soon as the well-known calluses of his fingers align with hers, the familiarity of his touch grounds her like nothing else could. In the periphery, she registers Natalie purring something inconsequential, but Bobbi's attention is fully captured by that impish smile tugging at the corner of Clint's lips.

"Lovely to meet you, Betty," he says, his eyes twinkling with private amusement as he effortlessly steps back into the role of the man who's wooed her for months before she gave in and went on a date with him.

And just like the first time around, Bobbi instantly falls in love with him all over again.

Blissfully unaware of any of this, Natalie motions for Clint to take her previous seat opposite Bobbi and with a satisfied smile, slides onto the bench after him, leaving hardly enough space between them for the holy spirit.

By the time the first round of drinks arrive, Bobbi has realized that it's not a case of mistaken identity it is indeed Clint who's the intended target of their potential seduction.

It's got to be said though: Natalie is nothing if not subtle.

If Bobbi hadn't been suspicious before, it would probably pass as luck that Natalie 'guesses' Clint's favourite beer. Anyone else probably wouldn't think twice about it when she ends up with little alcohol left for herself after spilling most of her own drink in an 'accidentally' exaggerated gesture that miraculously does no further damage to either of them. Not to mention that the anecdote she comes up with a moment later is not only genuinely funny, it's just suggestive enough to be flirty while taking the table's temperature for potential further shenanigans.

All of this points to the fact that Natalie -if that even is her real name!- is simply too good to be a run-of-the-mill seductress trying to sway some poor shmuck's opinion of her boss. Which does raise the question who she's really working for and whether she might be running her own game on the side.

Bobbi exchanges a covert glance with her husband and finds him equally impressed. Which really only leaves them with one plan of action, they need to find out who this woman is.

Clint runs a contemplative hand over his jaw as if smoothing down his non-existent beard. He smiles at Bobbi in a way that makes her insides flutter most unprofessionally and, when she lowers her lashes in covert confirmation, he turns his attention on Natalie.

It's strange to see him tuck a strand of hair behind another woman's ear, to know exactly what it feels like when the back of his fingers run softly along the curve of Natalie's jaw. It's only Bobbi's unrivalled professionalism and something like the thrill of the hunt that quells the sudden flare of jealousy in her gut. With an insipid smile on her face, she watches their eyes meet and the lush red of Natalie's lips part as if involuntarily when Clint's thumb touches her chin.

"Now, I don't want to be too forward here, ladies, but it looking at my watch, Betty's birthday is almost over. What do you say we take this party elsewhere and, you know, greet this new year of unexpected opportunities a little less publicly?" He flashes both of them that rakish hint of teeth that has brought lesser women to their knees and, complicated emotions aside, Bobbi knows he's playing at searching Natalie's apartment. She laughs as if flattered, which is fully in character but also matches how unexpectedly giddy it makes her to continue this tangled game of double bluffs.

Out loud, she says "Oh, I don't know," dragging out the last syllable as if shy, pulling out all the stops as she plays with her hair and shoots glances at Natalie.

Under the table though, her foot hooks around Clint's ankle and his grin broadens minutely. He raises a pointed eyebrow that looks, for all intents and purposes, like an invitation for Natalie to try and convince her friend.

Bobbi bites her lip like a woman that does indeed need a little convincing, on tenterhooks as to whether they can keep up the charade of being strangers if the night continues on elsewhere. Just how far _are_ they going to take this thing in the name of intel gathering? Surely, one of them can distract Natalie while the other does a little recon, but going by the level of professionalism the woman has exhibited so far, it's going to have to be one hell of a distraction to keep her occupied.

While Bobbi is mentally several steps ahead of the night's proceedings, Natalie drains her glass and stands up, only to slide right back into the booth on Bobbi's side. She gives startled 'Betty' a reassuring smile and, with a friendly arm around her, leans in close to Bobbi's ear.

"I'm going to let this man take me home now. For Ivan, but also because it isn't exactly going to be a hardship - have you seen his arms?" she giggles girlishly and Bobbi joins in automatically, shooting Clint a sideways glance. He's sprawled into the corner seat, badly hiding his amused curiosity behind the neck of his beer bottle. "I do wish you'd come along, Betty," Natalie admits in a whisper, her lips now close enough to touch the shell of Bobbi's ear. "Let us give you a birthday to remember."

"But it's not my birthday," Bobbi replies, only half pretending her sudden nerves. Natalie is so close, Bobbi feels her warmth and can smell sweet alcohol among the notes of perfume in her hair, but the eyes staring back at her are level and clear.

"Who cares?" Natalie whispers, sly amusement teasing at her lips, "Why don't we just _play pretend_ for one night... Betty."

She wants to wonder whether there's intent to the short hesitation before her false name, but at that moment, Natalie's mouth moulds itself to her own and the kiss chases all coherent thought from her mind.

*

Bobbi resurfaces from the shallow doze of afterglow to Clint's suppressed yawn. Settled against either one of Natalie's sides and separated only by the smooth dips and swoops of her milk-white throat, a dozen short conversations take place in the look the couple shares.

Everything surrounding them is warm, and soft, and comfortable. Natalie is drawing mindless patterns in the soft hair of Clint's forearm that is flung across her midriff, the back of his fingers against Bobbi's navel. It's quiet and peaceful and Clint's eyes are asking what's happening next, which is as perfectly valid as it is frightening.

Nothing they found in the apartment implicated Natalie in any way, they have learned nothing useful and to call whatever-this-night-is _part of the job_ is a bold-faced lie. As much as she's enjoyed every physical second of the past hours, the unsettling claws of a moral hangover dig deep into Bobbi's insides. She knows Clint has read it in her eyes when his hand resettles to reassuringly squeeze her hip. His raised brow tells her he knows she's about to panic and do something stupid, while his darting glance expresses that he probably wonders where his pants have gotten to, in case he'll need them posthaste.

"Nat?" she starts, tightening her arm around the other woman under the cover of a languid snuggle.

A content hum is her reply, and Clint hitches his knee over Natalie's, making her entrapment appear much more romantic than its true intention.

"You're wasted on Ivan."

Natalie gives her a deep, low chuckle and nods without opening her eyes. "Damn right."

"Who do you really work for?" Bobbi chances, yet despite her readiness to spring into action, Natalie only laughs again and keeps up lazily dragging her fingertips over Clint's arm.

"Nobody that should concern you," she smiles, showing no concern when Bobbi and Clint exchange a quick glance.

"And yet here we are, concerned," Clint mutters.

"Let's just agree that whoever of us gets to him first, Ivan won't be causing any more trouble for long," Natalie assures them, smoothly rolling over to align her backside with Clint's groin and capture Bobbi's lips in a teasing succession of little kisses. Bobbi would be lying if the offer wasn't at least tempting.

"You're working his organization from the inside?" Clint valiantly tries to keep up the interrogation, breaking off on a groan when Natalie grinds back in a most pleasurable example of dirty pool.

"I would've already finished the job if I hadn't gotten distracted by some exceptional _birdwatching."_

"What kind of birds?" Clint asks, as if by-the-way. The strangest sense of suspended reality wars with arousal inside Bobbi's chest, but she follows when she's guided to kiss Clint over Natalie's shoulder.

"Oh, you know," the rival spy purrs, appearing perfectly at ease sandwiched between the two of them, "Hawks. Mockingbirds. They are so captivating to watch in their courtship dance, I found it impossible to stay away."


End file.
